Driven
by TheFarFire
Summary: Set 6 months after The Reichenbach Fall. (Version 2 - Reupload by original author) "John, you're on the verge of another panic attack, it's just an autonomic protective mechanism-" "I know! I bloody know, you idiot! I'm a doctor!" Slash. JohnLock. Contains scenes of a sexual nature, angst/drama/mild sub-dom/hurt-comfort/romance. Rating M to MA.
1. Chapter 1

**Foreward**

Hi all... it's been a long time.

If you've come here through my author alerts, welcome back, and I'm truly sorry for taking down this story four years ago- it's been a bit of a journey, but I'm finally ready to revisit and reupload the Johnlock story of my heart :)

For newcomers that stray across this, you should know that this story was originally uploaded and completed in 2013, before some personal issues forced me to take it down in early 2014. Well, that's behind me now, and after watching all the Sherlock series and concluding I'm still a season 1 and 2 Johnlock purist, I'm back to reupload the original story.

I will be editing and hopefully improving the content of each chapter as soon as I can, as it was a very rough original draft that made it to completion, but I received some great feedback the first time around and I just hope there is still something here worth your time. After that, who knows... but I always wanted to do a sequel.

 _Notes/Disclaimers:_

-None of the characters are mine, no profit to be made out of this at all etc etc.

-Reviews/favs are always appreciated but not demanded.

-This will contain SLASH. Mano-a-mano actions. Manlove. Consider yourself forewarned.

X TheFarFire x

 **Driven.**

 **Chapter 1**

"What's this all about?" John Watson rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes as he followed Lestrade down into the belly of Scotland Yard. It was late, the offices were quiet, and Lestrade had clearly been sweating, judging from the fade lines on his shirt collar. Fresh lines. He rolled his eyes at the detail. When would he stop picking up on things like that? And why tonight of all nights, did it suddenly set him on edge? He had enough grey hairs as it was, he really didn't need an increase in paranoia, not when he was trying so hard to make progress.

John cleared his throat, mouth a little dry, wondering if this was about the 'unofficial' medical care he'd been giving to London's homeless network since losing his job at Sarah's clinic four months ago. Dispensing treatments and prescription drugs funded by the estate left by ... _H_ _im_... wasn't strictly legal, but it wasn't strictly illegal either. Besides, it was the only good thing he was really doing with his life. If Lestrade was going to warn him off, he wasn't sure he could listen. It was the only thing keeping him active whilst he tried to get his head straight...

 _"It's to be expected. There is no magic number. There is no set time to grieve for someone. You're still in shock."_ His therapist's voice echoed round his mind, making him bristle. Not now. Not today.

"You look like Hell, John. When was the last time you ate?"

"I eat every day." _It's keeping it down that's the problem_ , he thought dryly. "Anyway, I though I told you to stop worrying about me?"

The Detective Inspector pulled up outside a closed door, a slight rabbit-caught-in-headlights look about him. On closer inspection John could see that even Lestrade's forehead was sporting a fine sheen of sweat now, mouth puckering in anxiety. His training immediately kicked in, the instinct to provide medical care was still as strong as it ever was.

"Greg, you don't look too great yourself. Let me -" He reached towards him, attempting to feel his temperature on his forehead, but was rebuffed gently. Lestrade smiled nervously, shaking his head in dismissal, instead getting a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop down his brow.

"I'll be alright, I'm just... I dunno... Overwhelmed a bit."

John frowned with concern, but just as he was about to insist, his eyes were suddenly drawn away to the door. Someone was waiting in there.

Even with the dirty frosted glass, he caught sight of movement set further back as a figure passed by the light inside. Lestrade looked furtively at the door, then to John's face, and then finally came to rest on a scuff mark on the opposite wall.

And all John could do was watch Lestrade fidget back and forth, rubbing his neck, brow furrowed, clearly stressed. He hadn't seen him like this in a very long time, and it made a knot of worry form in his gut, tightening as Lestrade continued.

"Damn strange business, all of this... You know the past few months since Sh-" John still couldn't control the involuntary jump in his heart, followed by that tight contracting feeling, every time someone mentioned _His_ name, something which never went unnoticed. Lestrade cut himself off from completing it, probably trying to spare him more discomfort, like that was even possible. "This is... _Horrible_. It's all just a big bloody mess. Again."

John looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean..? Seriously, what's going on, you look like you're coming down with something. Or about to have a coronary." He half smiled at the bad joke, trying to get Lestrade to see sense. He tried again. "Would you just let me take a look at you?" But Lestrade wasn't listening.

"You're not going to like this. I want you to try to prepare yourself, as best you can. If that's even - o _h God_ _,_ " his eyes flickered from left to right, like he was thinking aloud rather than actually talking to John. Had he rehearsed this? He looked like he was trying to remember his lines. "I just... I just wish there was some other way to do this- it's just we were _desperate_. The Moran case, the double suicide- to think that you and me, and poor Mrs Hudson- well it just- I mean sometimes I can't even-"

"Greg!" John grabbed him by the arms, shaking him once to try and get him to focus. Lestrade looked him right in the face, seemingly bracing himself for what he had to say.

"You were right." He said slowly, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry. You were _completely_ right all along. He isn't a fraud. You had faith in him, and trusted him, and I was an idiot and I should have listened to you and not all the non-believers upstairs. That bastard Moriarty nearly got away with it."

John's voice was merely a whisper, the blood felt like it was draining out of his arms. After everything that had happened, Moriarty's name still had a debilitating effect on him; but the way he was talking, mixing up his tenses, apologising like this, was unnerving him more. He could barely get the words out.

"What are you saying...?"

Lestrade looked at the frosted glass, the shadow had retreated. "Sherlock is a hero. He saved all three of us from being murdered by that nutcase. I mean, one of my own men, can you even believe it...?"

John sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself for a conversation he did not want to have right now. "Was. _Was_ a hero, Greg. I know. It's hard. No one understands better than me, okay? Come on, you're meant to-" Lestrade cut him off, returning John's grip on his arms, surprising him with the sudden strength.

"The story is running tomorrow. It'll be in all the papers. Sherlock will be exonerated... We can prove Moriarty existed, we have his right hand man in custody. It's finally over, John!" He looked so relieved, but John was aghast. "Don't you see? We can make it like it was before, we can go back-"

"I wouldn't go that far, Lestrade."

John's blood ran cold.

The voice he never expected to hear in this world or any possible after life just spoke from behind the frosted glass. The rich baritone barely even muffled. It was as if the door had put aside it's own existence just so that voice could be directly and fully aimed at John's ears with piercing clarity. He dropped his grip on Lestrade like it burned him, mouth setting in a hard, thin, unbelieving line, eyes widening until the whites shone. He moved back so far he bumped into the corridor wall opposite.

There... behind the frosted glass, was the unmistakable silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. The shadow reached, turned the handle, and revealed himself.

If John hadn't been a doctor, he would have thought he was having a heart attack. But as he _was_ a doctor, he knew it was just another panic attack- except he couldn't just ride this one out. He couldn't remember a single technique to help him through what was happening to him right in that moment. He was shocked into freezing right there, lungs refusing to work, feeling the sickening tension of a fight-or-flight reaction explode over his chest and rush up to his eyes, making them water.

But still, he bit back any and all noises, words, and especially the expletives. His eyes wanted to look everywhere at once- did they actually see more this time since his absence? Because Sherlock suddenly seemed to be full to the brim with ' _more_ '... more colour, more force, more _LIFE_.

"I'm sorry John, I wanted to tell you. It tore me up, seeing the way you've been. But the circumstances... I had to do my job to protect you-" Sherlock raised a hand silencing Lestrade, who went to say something further before deciding against it. He retreated down into the corridor instead, trying to give them some privacy.

Sherlock turned his full attention on John, just like he would after coming to one of his amazing conclusions, just like he would when he needed John to hear him, tell him how fantastic he was. But he couldn't handle it. His dead best friend, was here, right in front of him, with that look. It was... _too cruel_.

"John..." That voice, coming out of _that_ mouth, attached to _that_ body, made up of _THAT_ mind- "I don't even know where to begin. I have so much I need to tell you-"

"Save it." John shook his head once, choking out the two words through bared teeth. He'd never wanted to kill a dead man before -and he meant really, truly, squeeze-the-life-out-with-his-barehands type of killing. His heart felt like it was going to burst in equal parts hysteria and horror.

It wasn't possible, he'd finally lost it, clearly. The grief had sent him mad and he was probably lying in a puddle of his own drool somewhere in a mental hospital. Because he'd seen it. He'd seen the jump. The fall. That coat- John covered his mouth with both hands, back sliding up against the wall to steady himself.

He was wearing _the coat_.

 _No, no, no, NO NO NO-_

He wasn't equipped to deal with this situation at all. Not now, not ever. Tears threatened to spill over his eyes, and there was no air, no god-damn air in this whole building! Sherlock raised a hand to try and placate him but John was done. One hundred percent done.

Had they expected him to yell? To kick and punch or scream swear words and vulgar nonsense? He had previous form afterall, back at Baskerville, so it must have been a possibility they prepared for. _Prepared for..._ John pointed a shaking finger past Sherlock at Lestrade who did his best to avoid his accusing glare. There were not enough words to describe the feeling of betrayal looking at the pair of them caused him.

John's stomach rolled violently. A warning. He had to get out of there before- _before...!_

Sherlock grabbed him as he tried to lurch away. "Please, John, just-"

Big mistake.

In all the times he'd imagined this impossible reunion, he'd never in a million scenarios dreamt up the reality.

John just managed to turn his head down fast enough to throw up on the floor, missing his suit but splashing Sherlock's shoes instead. He was so stunned that he released John and for a moment they just stared at each other. It was one of the few times John had ever seen him speechless. They both were.

And just like that he snapped. John wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and then unceremoniously kneed Sherlock in the groin, shoving him down on the ground like a crumpled wet paper bag, who grimaced in well-deserved agony.

"You won't get away with this!" John screamed at him, voice breaking, looking back up at Lestrade who was rushing back towards them. "Either of you!"

Which left him only one thing left to do. He ran. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers _ran_. Back up the way Lestrade had led him, shame burning his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

If John had any doubts about what had just happened, then the arse-load of reporters lurking outside 221-B Baker Street had been evidence enough. The story would break in a couple of hours, and the public would be frenzied in their hunger for the gory details.

What the hell was he going to do?

John shivered against the clammy night air, but he couldn't bring himself to move from where he stood. The place where everything changed. His breath caught as he slowly raised his eyes to the ledge above, to the place where Sherlock had said his goodbyes.

How many times had he woke up screaming his name? How many times had he replayed the tipping point in his mind? How many times had he heard the gut-churning _thwack_ sound of flesh on the pavement...?

John took a shuddering breath in, leaning over on his knees. His heart was pounding, vision unsteady, bile threatening to rise again. _It was all a lie._ He'd been too busy seeing the horror, and not the truth.

"Misdirection."

It was funny how one word could conjure up a thousand different feelings when said in just the right way. Irritation, bitterness, hurt, _HATE-_

"Can I not just have this time to myself? Is there not one spare inch of my life you bloody Holmes' won't trample on?!" John forced himself upright, glaring at Mycroft with contempt.

Sherlock's older brother looked directly back at him, but there was nowhere near the normal amount of arrogance and cunning he usually displayed. In fact, you could almost say there was an air of sheepishness about him. But John was too fired up to debate whether Mycroft had grown a conscience in the last six months.

"It's been a long time, John."

"Really? It feels just like yesterday to me, and I highly doubt something like the faked death of your brother would have prevented you from keeping tabs on me." Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but John's strained voice steamrollered over the top of his. He jabbed a finger in the air at him with vehemence. "If you try to deny it, I'll knock you out." Mycroft's mouth snapped shut. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? 'Oh poor simple John, he's too distraught to realise he's still under surveillance.'" He laughed incredulously, the sound echoing on the damp streets. "I mean it all makes sense now- why keep tabs on me unless Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on one of his most successful experiments?! What was the topic this time? What about '101 Ways to Drive a Man Insane'? Or how about, 'How to Make the Perfect Human Time-bomb'?!"

John swallowed hard, the yelling certainly was invigorating, but he had to try and reign it in before he had a complete breakdown. He straightened up, firmed his stance, clenched his fists by his sides. He tried to speak as evenly as possibly this time, but the strain was evident in his voice.

"Tell me, did you both start laughing about it straight away, or did you actually have the common decency to wait until after I was was done pouring out my heart at that fucking tombstone?"

It was very rare to see Mycroft as stunned as he was in that moment, but sure enough, he managed to gather his wits to respond. "...I only found out he was alive 23 days ago."

John was about to call him a liar, but the dark circles around the other man's eyes and the extra lines on his pallid face seemed to tell a different story. Still, he wasn't about to start feeling sorry for him now. If Mycroft had used his brain properly, and kept that typically smug mouth shut, then this whole fiasco might not have happened in the first place. Not this way atleast... surely things could have been different?

"Well, that's 23 days of... _pain_...that you could have saved me." Mycroft balked under that comment, lowering his gaze. "Not that you owed me anything of course." He added in a low sarcastic drawl, knowing full well that they were both aware how, yes indeed, Mycroft did owehim- several times over.

Given all this, Mycroft still had the gall to stick his nose in further. "You've got it wrong, Sherlock did all this for a reason-"

"And now you're actually defending him? Because that's a completely normal response from you!" John scoffed, walking away, feeling better for it with every step. But Mycroft followed.

"I'm not saying I agree with his methods, I told you before he has an eye for the dramatic-"

"Stop following me."

"I looked into it immediately, I even went to that Lestrade fellow to point him in the right direction. Moriarty-"

"Shut up!" John stumbled momentarily on the pavement but kept moving. That name, _that_ _demon-!_

"-had assassins ready to kill him, Mrs Hudson, and yourself, if Sherlock didn't publicly ruin himself. In his eyes it had to culminate with Sherlock's suicide. It was the most perfect, human display-" Mycroft grabbed his good shoulder, levering himself back into eye-shot,"-of guilt."

"Take. Your hands. Off me." John growled.

Back in the beginning, Mycroft had picked up on John's 'cravings' left over from the front line. The intensity of adrenaline fuelled danger, that terrible rush of endorphins released at the point of victory... Yet he was always so quick to dismiss John as harmless. Just some quiet little doctor, with a quiet little life. It looked like he was having second thoughts now though. Mycroft released him, stepping back slightly. John was thinner, hadn't been doing so well after the whole ordeal, but here, half shadowed in the London air, he looked ready to strike with deadly force.

"The surveillance was my own doing. Sherlock had nothing to do with it, as far as I was aware he was buried in the ground. I was..." He paused to think of the appropriate word, "...concerned...about some of those he left behind. You just happened to be on that list."

John blinked in disbelief, it appeared that Mycroft hadn't lost his gift for bullshit after all.

"Listen to me very carefully." John started. "I won't be repeating myself. You take away all of the surveillance, get rid of your minions dogging my every move, and don't darken my door ever again. Because if I see you again, I can't be held accountable for what I'll do to you."

John left Mycroft where he stood and headed towards an alley which would cut through on to the main street. He could hear the other man yelling after him, but he was done. No more holding on.

"He said he'd burn the heart out of Sherlock- think on it John! Don't be stupid about this, don't let Moriarty win! John!"

No of course not...Moriarty couldn't win.

That right was claimed by the Holmes family.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John woke up quickly and with a completely clear mind. He rarely had the chance to savour these moments, they were so few and far between... This time was the only reprieve he had. Innocent of all the things that haunted him. Clean.

The best things never lasted though. He gingerly raised himself up on the elbow of his good arm, and looked around. He'd thrown his nightshirt off again, the blankets were caught up around his legs, and the end of the bed and bedroom floor were covered in shreds of newspaper.

Allowing himself to sit up properly, he felt more than a little embarrassed about the state of his room. In the cold light of day, it looked more like it belonged to a young offender rather than a responsible adult. _Responsible..._ He frowned sadly, feeling like the word didn't suit him anymore.

It had been a nightmare trying to get back into the flat that morning, through all the reporters that had camped out waiting to get 'The Big Scoop' from Dr John Watson. He'd managed it, but left quotes that were definitely unusable for the more reputable papers. Thinking about it now, he decided it would probably be best to steer clear of the news for a bit.

The shredded newspaper strips looked up at him accusingly, which forced him into gathering up as much as he could, cramming them into the bedroom bin hastily. It was only after reading the fourth tabloid in the early hours of the morning, had John got what he thought was the whole picture, even with the odd theatrical embellishment here and there. But it had been the details regarding _'Sherlock's most trusted confidantes'_ helping him to pull off the stunt that had triggered the unfortunate destruction of the newspapers.

Left in the dark again. After all he had done for Sherlock...

He'd been so angry that he was sure he wouldn't sleep, but of course passed out from exhaustion within seconds of his head touching the pillows.

John's stomach growled, upset once again at the irregularity of its filling and emptying. He groaned, rubbing the sleep out if his eyes. He'd actually vomited all down the front if The Great Sherlock Holmes. The scene kept playing over and over in his head. Part of him found it very funny, but the majority vote was: totally mortified!

He took his frustration out on the pillows, slamming them back into place as he made the bed. It wasn't to be helped, he was still trying to rebuild his life, the panic attacks were just an inconvenient part that he would get over, he knew that, it was just a matter of time-

A tentative knock on the door, anxious shuffling of feet, a light step he recognised. Oh he'd been selfish thus far, he knew, he was entitled to, but poor Mrs Hudson had probably only just found out the truth herself-

A frown settled on John's face as suspicion kicked in. Had she been in on it? Mrs Hudson might have been one if the wiliest women he knew, but if he asked her outright he was sure she'd be honest... but did he really want to know if she had?

John slid back the deadbolt on his door, and flipped back a second lock, opening up the door a few inches. "Mrs Huds-"

Sherlock roughly pushed against the door, wedging himself in. John was so surprised he practically leapt back, and this gave Mr Element of Surprise the space he needed to fling back the door opening it completely.

Weirdly, John's first thought as Sherlock loomed before him was: _He's wearing the purple shirt I got him for his birthday._

"We need to talk." Sherlock stated, a few furtive glances around no doubt bringing him completely up to speed as to what John had been up to as of late. It was too much for the retired soldier doctor- it wasn't fair, it _wasn't right_ for Sherlock to analyse him now!

"Where the hell do you get off pretending to be Mrs Hudson?!"

"Why do you have your door locked? You never do that- and you've added a deadbolt-"

Instinctively, John grabbed up a pillow, and shoved it into Sherlock like a policeman with a riot shield. "Out! _Out!_ Get out of my room!"

He managed to wrangle him back onto the top of the stairs, protesting. "John that's hardly fair, you've been all over mine."

It was like a slap to the face when Sherlock said that. His body protested at the conflicting pressure of wanting to go beet red and faint at the same time. He pulled back slightly, letting the pillow hang down by his side, trying to take slow even breaths.

Sherlock reached for him but John shrank back further, leaning against the door frame. "How... _dare..._ You say that. To me." He whispered between gasps. Sherlock had stepped on a mental land-mine John hadn't known was there, and he could feel the fallout building up inside him again.

Of course he had been in Sherlock's room. He'd forced himself to as soon as he'd returned back to Baker Street. He'd justified it by saying it was to be good to Mrs Hudson, a sense of normality returning to their home. But really he'd been fooling himself.

John thought back to the very first time he'd cried in there, sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, the sheets still freshly made because he never bloody slept in it. One hand clasped in Sherlock's dressing gown and the other trying to stem the flow at his eyes.

Of course Sherlock would have seen the signs, the little tell tale creases in the covers he never remade that showed where John had sometimes slept. How could he ever try to explain why he'd done it? Did he even owe him an explanation after all that happened?

"You have. No right. No right to-" John was fighting for air, hands shaking so much that the pillow slipped free.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was low and soothing. Annoyingly manipulative right now. "You're on the verge of another panic attack, it's just an autonomic protective mechanism-"

"I know! I bloody know you idiot! I'm a doctor!" He stumbled forward, this time putting his hands on him, wanting to grab him into a hug, because there was relief there under all the upset, there really was, but he was too freaked out and livid to give in to it. Better to push, to get him out, get the air put back into the building. Sherlock jumped back down a couple more stairs without looking what he was doing, before widening his arms and stopping them both.

"You shouldn't even be here!" John felt stronger for yelling, so that was what he was going to do, yell over the panic. Sherlock clearly didn't mind airing their dirty laundry to complete strangers, so John could do it too. Let Mrs Hudson hear his fury, let the reporters make what they wanted of it. Sherlock had started this and John was bloody well going to finish it.

"I live here, where else would I go?"

"No, you don't live here, the rental passed to me after you _offed_ yourself, so you can bloody well fuck off back to whatever rock you've been deducing under the last six months for all I care!"

Sherlock swallowed, raising his hands slightly, palms outward in what John considered to be the international sign for 'calm down, let the hostages go' - infuriatingly not calming at all.

"I just want to explain-"

"No Sherlock, NO." John slapped his hands away, nausea giving way to rage. "I don't want to hear about it, I'm not going to stand here and clap my hands like usual and tell you how brilliant you are this time, no, NOT this time. I can't bear it!"

"If we're going to get past this, I just need you to listen-"

John was ready to punch him in the face, but instead he drew himself up to his full height and practically screamed from the top of his lungs. "NO you will listen to ME. It's _your_ turn to stand there and take it!" John jabbed Sherlock in the chest with his finger, forcing him to go down another step to keep balance. "You're a coward!" He screamed, the sound reverberating in the stair well. Sherlock's open mouth snapped shut, and for a split second John was just as surprised as he was that he had said that at all. He was just so furious, so hurt, conflicted-

"You're a coward." John repeated, voice lower but still incensed. "I don't want to hear how you did it to save me, or Lestrade, or Mrs Hudson... Because we both know you did it for yourself. You did it BY yourself. You made me watch you... What did you expect me to say? 'Welcome home?' Did you even think for one second what your death would do to me?" John's face was draining of colour at the memory, but his eyes were still locked on Sherlock's, his voice disgusted. "Or were you too busy planning your glorious and triumphant return...?"

Sherlock went to speak, he clearly wanted to defend himself, but he couldn't find the right words to start with. John couldn't know that a feeling was bunching up in his chest - something unfamiliar, unplanned for, and growing exponentially with every disbelieving, angry look John threw at him.

"The funny thing is I should be used to being the last one to know. I'm your only friend, your _'best friend'_ " -angry air quotation marks- "and yet you still thought so little of me, still thought that I'd come around and get over it eventually just so that you could take the easy way out."

"Now John, I hardly think jumping off of-" John pushed him back down another step, asserting himself to a height advantage for once. Sherlock bit his lip, this wasn't right, this wasn't how he had planned it.

"It was all so straight forward for you, wasn't it? I can't believe after all this time I could have been so blind! I thought... I thought things were different... for you and me atleast. But it was a huge mistake, clearly. All of it."

"It _isn't_ like that, John, please-"

"You're a coward for letting me - and everyone else - suffer. For the lying, for betraying our friendship. If there were trained people ready to kill us, you would have rather saved yourself the hassle of feeling anything, of being the one to grieve, because you just had to bloody show off!"

"What 'if'? I saved your lives!"

"What life?! You don't get it do you? There's nothing left!" John flung his hands wide, stood in just his pajamas bottoms, cord pulled tight because he was a lot thinner now, clothes needed to be tighter, drawn in, skin pallid, dark circles round his eyes, scars puckered across the shoulder. Sherlock was well aware that one of the most important people in his life had been slowly wasting away, and he still didn't fully understand how he could fix things. Not with so many variables.

"I didn't want this for you. I'm sorry..." Sherlock drew his hands to his mouth in a prayer form, mumbling, eyes searching, mind processing. "You deserved to live a fear-free life if just for a moment, I wanted to give you that atleast. Moriarty-"

John pushed past him, clutching his hair, practically stomping into the living room before whirling round to face Sherlock who stood in the doorway. "Don't say that name!" His eyes darted away, the barest hint of a tremor, that blasted tremor, in his hands as he wiped them across his face. He dropped them resolutely next to his sides, clenching them into fists, a nod of his head, a decision finally made. And Sherlock wasn't going to like it.

"I've done a lot of things in my life, Sherlock. For others, and yes, for myself, right or wrong, I've...tried." Sherlock was frozen. Suddenly, it was _his_ palms sweating, _his_ heart accelerating. He could see it all in John's face, he was going to do it, say the one thing that he hadn't even allowed himself to entertain. It was all unravelling underneath him and he was woefully short on information to mitigate the damage. Sherlock had to do something, he hadn't accounted for this, _oh God_ how could he be so stupid not to account for this?

"I have been embarrassed before, read the signs wrong, got myself into trouble... Been fooled more than once, by lesser men and women...But I have never felt such shame for knowing someone, as I do with you right now."

This _rejection_.

"I'm ashamed because... I would let you do this to me a thousand times over, forever if you wanted it... Just because you wanted it." John looked imploringly at him, eyes showing just the barest glimmer of tears, before his expression levelled and guarded itself again. Another tip of his head, he had decided, he was going to be firm. "Aaaand i hate myself for it. I brought this on myself I know now... I was warned off plenty of times and I was stubborn and ignored them. But I can't...I can't deal with this. No way. Which is why you'll have to kiss this face goodbye." He closed his eyes with a pained expression. "I just can't stay here. With you-"

Sherlock's impossibly long stride covered the distance between them instantly, acting on impulse. Before John could react, Sherlock had both hands in his hair, leaning in close. With one swift arch down, Sherlock pressed his lips to Johns and kissed him hard, as if John had been the one to come back from the dead. As if it was Sherlock who was the desperate and distraught one.

Caught by the total surprise of it, Sherlock practically dragged them together, wrapping strong arms around him. A terrible thrill struck through John's body like a lightening bolt, and just for an instant he forgot everything.

Confusion, doubt, _longing-_

"What the Hell is wrong with you?!" John pulled away, knocking Sherlocks arms wide, freeing himself to stagger backwards into the coffee table. John didn't know it then, but he would remember much later in vivid detail, the briefly petulant look Sherlock gave him. The one that said 'I'm not done!' A few shocked blinks from John and Sherlock just looked like himself again, as if nothing had changed.

John shook his head from side to side, scrunching his eyes shut, trying to speak. " _Goddamit_ Sherlock, it - _that_ \- it was just an expression! Not a request!"

"I know..." he replied simply, as if what had just occurred was completely normal for them. "I also know that you will never forgive me for all that I have put you through." He took a deep breath, some obvious things were hard to admit even for him. "And I will never ask you to forgive me. I have no right to. I know. But... you are right, I guess I am a coward of sorts. I would not have...handled... it any better if the tables were reversed. This was easy for me. Or rather, 'easier'...And I love to win. I need it, sometimes... To know that I can find a way around the impossible."

John bristled but let him continue, trying to forget they had just snogged, for want of a better word, because this was important.

"But you need to admit to yourself that had our roles been reversed and you had it within your grasp to beat the game, win it all back, save everyone important to you, you would have taken that chance!"

"The game... The bloody game!" John laughed derisively and Sherlock waved it away.

"Don't twist it, you know what I'm trying to say." He drew close again, grabbing John by the upper arms, and baring down on him with those piercing sea-grey eyes. "I'm trying to tell you something important, John, so just listen! Really understand that I could have just stayed dead. I could have done it. But this...all that we have been through..." Sherlock looked at him earnestly, but John kept his mouth closed, he was really going to have to spell it out to him. "I came back for you, John. Only you." Sherlock's gaze softened, and John cursed the butterflies plaguing his stomach. "I thought you wanted this..."

He watched John's expression flinch, a nervous twitch jerking at the edge of his mouth, even as the glimmer returned to his eyes, it was all Dr John Watson Stiff Upper Lip, but the twitch gave him away so fully... Sherlock had seen the signs before in another, even if John wasn't ready to acknowledge them. Rapid pulse, shallow breathing, a distinct dilation in the eyes... so subtle, and so painful for Sherlock as he faced his traumatised best friend. He knew he had made the right choices at the time, but now, seeing how he completely underestimated how John would cope...the guilt was real and suffocating.

He just wanted to come home. Like before. To be together again.

"You're...you're just saying that... You think I want to hear it, so you say it and don't mean a word of it."

"You don't believe that." Sherlock said with conviction.

A slamming front door and footsteps running up the stairs broke the spell that lingered over them. It gave John the chance to shake free of his grip with a grunt, heading straight back to his room.

"I'll prove it!" Sherlock yelled after him as Lestrade rounded on to the landing with a worried look. John slammed the door closed behind him, leaning his back against it, holding on to the fury and pain that wanted to spill out of his mouth.

 _His mouth..._

It wasn't until after Sherlock and Lestrade had left a few minutes later, the rumble of reporters flaring up in the distance, that John allowed himself to run the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip.

There was a taste. A something 'other'. Something he knew now to be definitively Sherlock.

And a hot blaze of salt in the corner. Just one tear track... he was getting better, he was getting stronger.

He let out a loud groan. The Kiss. Forever capitalised. How long had he told himself he hadn't wanted that, that the grief was just regular friend-loses-friend grief? Sherlock had probably only done it to be funny, to try and dampen his temper, to try and get his own way, he just wanted to-

John practically jumped out of his skin as his phone vibrated loudly against the bedside table.

Two text messages. Three missed calls. His therapist had clearly seen the papers, as had his sister Harry.

 _We need to bring your appointment forward - Ella T._

 _Tel me its a rly sick jk rite?! - Harry_

And one incoming as he held it:

 _DON'T GO. -SH_


End file.
